Damn, it’s cold this morning. Colder’n a witch’s tit,” said Fred when he joined Oscar at Christo’s for coffee the Wednesday after the Winter Festival. Fred rubbed his hands together as he spoke. “Quite a snowstorm on Sunday. Ain’t had one like that for a while.”
“Sit down, and quit complaining,” said Oscar, who already had a cup of steaming coffee in front of him.
“I ain’t complaining. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, though. Twenty below zero this morning,” said Fred.
“I didn’t think it was that cold. You sure your thermometer ain’t broke?”
“My thermometer ain’t broke. It’s just plain colder than hell.” Fred hung his red-and-black-checked wool Mackinaw over the back of his chair. “How’d you get your coffee already?”
“If you’d get goin’ a little sooner in the morning, you’d get early coffee too.”
Costandina, unbeknownst to both of the old men, was standing off to the side, taking in the conversation and smiling from ear to ear.
“You like some coffee, Fred?” she asked. She had an empty cup in one hand and a steaming pot of coffee in the other.
“You betcha I would. Need to warm up. Cold out there today.” He rubbed his hands together again.
“Looks to me like you got yourself a new haircut,” said Oscar.
“Yup, I did, had my ears lowered. Cap fits better now.”
“That’s one of the reasons you’re so damn cold.”
“What’s one of the reasons?”
“You got your hair cut, dummy. Nobody gets his hair cut in the winter. Hair keeps you warm. Olden days, nobody got a haircut in the winter. They let ’er grow.”
“Well, this ain’t the olden days, Oscar. If you haven’t noticed.”
“So, what’d you make of the winter festival?” asked Oscar.
“Saturday was pretty darn good. About the best Saturday we’ve had in years. That high school band over at Willow River, boy those kids are good. No question about it. Those kids know how to toot on them horns. Expect you’d like to hear what I’ve picked up about your ghost performance,” Fred said.
“What’d you hear?”
Fred smiled, hesitated, and took another sip of coffee.
“Well, what’d you hear?”
“Hate to have to tell you this,” said Fred, trying to be serious.
“What?”
“Folks said it was the best performance you ever gave. Best goll-darn ghost recitation you ever did.” Fred was smiling broadly. He took another sip of coffee.
“Pleased to hear it. Pleased to hear it,” Oscar said. “Sunday kind of fizzled, didn’t it? They did the snowmobile races—at least I think they did. You could hear ’em roaring down the river, but you couldn’t see ’em. Wonder how them snowmobile drivers could see where they was goin’? I wondered about that.”
“I didn’t stay. Drove on home when it started snowin’ hard. Tires on my pickup ain’t the best any more. Traction’s not so good,” Fred said.
“Say, you been reading the Farm Country News?” asked Oscar.
“Yeah, I read most of it the day it comes out. Sometimes I read all of it. Depends on how busy I am. Sometimes I’m pretty busy.”
“Well, did you read that stuff that somebody using the initials ‘M.D.’ wrote?”
“Yeah, I read it. Supposed to be poetry, I expect. Do you think it’s poetry, Oscar?”
“Doesn’t matter what it is, matters what it says and who says it.”
“I’m just not sure it’s poetry. Set up like poetry, short lines stacked up on top of each other, but isn’t poetry supposed to rhyme?”
“Damn it, doesn’t matter if it’s poetry or not. What’d you make of it, Fred?”
“First off, whoever M.D. is, he doesn’t think much of the new pig farm comin’ into the valley, does he?” answered Fred.
“He sure doesn’t, and I pretty much agree with him,” said Oscar. “I don’t think havin’ that many pigs on one piece of ground is a good idea.”
“But them pigs ain’t gonna be outside. They’re gonna be in buildings, big, new buildings,” said Fred, taking another sip of coffee.
“There’s still pig manure, Fred, inside a building or not. Pig manure’s gotta get outside sometime or another. And pig manure stinks.”
“But don’t we need something to lower our taxes? Property taxes are just about killin’ us. Keep goin’ up every year. Need a new business to increase our tax base.”
“That we do, Fred; that we do. I agree with you there. Say, who do you think is writing these poems? Who do you think M.D. is? Could it be one of our doctors in Willow River? They’re all MDs, aren’t they?”
“Nah, don’t think it’s no doctor. Those folks are so darn busy, they don’t have time to do anything but help sick people.”
“I think I know who M.D. is. I think I know,” said Oscar.
“Well, you gonna tell me, or just keep it to yourself ?”
“You’re testy this morning; you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“Maybe. Maybe I did. None of your damn business what side of the bed I got up on. So who is M.D., in your well-informed, intelligent way of thinking about things?”
“I think M.D. stands for Mortimer Dunn, the Tamarack River Ghost.”
Fred laughed out loud. “You serious? Old Mort Dunn’s been gone since 1900, hardly think he’s up to writing poetry or whatever that stuff in the paper is.”
“The ghost could be workin’ with a livin’ person, givin’ him the ideas to put down on paper and send in,” said Oscar.
“Oscar, I saw it comin’ your way, and I think it’s now here. Yup, I think it’s now here,” said Fred.
“What the hell you thinkin’ about now?”
“I’m thinkin’ about you.”
“I thought we was talking about who M.D. was.”
“We were.”
“So, what about me? What’s coming my way?”
“Senility, the old-timer’s disease,” said Fred.
“Hell, Fred, I ain’t no more senile than you are.”
“So why’d you think ‘M.D.’ might stand for Mortimer Dunn?”
“’Cause it just might. Say as you will, that old Tamarack River Ghost is still around. Still around. You can bet your bottom dollar on it,” said Oscar.